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You become as much interested in Fatima's fate as if she were your own pet, and the climax is no less unexpected than it is natural, especially when it is made also the last act of a pretty comedy of love.
When our Mahmouds or Selims of Baker Street or Belgrave Square visit their Fatimas with condign punishment, their mothers sew up Fatima's sack for her, and her sisters and sisters-in-law see her well under water. And this present writer does not say nay. He protests most solemnly he is a Turk, too. He wears a turban and a beard like another, and is all for the sack practice, Bismillah!
They just put it off the steamer last week at Aleppo. Fatima's taking a nap in it now, but when she wakes up " "What nonsense!" sniffed Miss Wiggin. "It's not nonsense!" protested the junior partner. "Now listen to what happens. Some Armenian the Armenians are the pawnbrokers of Asia Minor moves into that village and in three months he has a mortgage on everything in it, including that brass bed.
One of the Misses Brooke was going to be married to this London merchant. We were just at an age when a real life romance is very attractive, and the town was not rich in romances at least, in our little society. So Fatima's idea found great favour with us, and, as she described it, seemed really probable.
I'm sure I shall have as many fancies as hairs in my wig, and as to you, considering how little things weigh on your mind now "Fatima's reasoning was not conclusive, but I think I came at last to believe that Miss Brooke's distrust was creditable to herself, and complimentary to me so it certainly must have been convincing. "'And now, she concluded, 'come upstairs and forget it.
In a moment he returned to the room, where Thiuli had remained. He brought with him an innocent drink, felt the pulse of the sick Fatima once more, pushed the note beneath her bracelet, and then handed her the liquid through the opening in the wall. Thiuli seemed to be in great anxiety on Fatima's account, and postponed the examination of the rest to a more fitting opportunity.
As usual, the presents were charming; the wreath as lovely as Fatima's deft fingers could make it, the general holiday and pleasure-making almost too much of a good thing. Otherwise, there was little to mark it from other days in the year.
Only, as she used to say joyously afterwards, there was really no mistaking Fatima's trot when she was coming. Once, Rafferty, the old butler, who was dead now, had opened the pantry door suddenly, and had all but let the tray of Waterford glass he was carrying fall, for the fright she had given him. She remembered how on that night of the Big Wind, when her terror was at its worst.
I do not quite know how far on it was into the night when I was roused by Fatima's voice repeating my name over and over again, in tones of subdued terror. I know nothing more irritatingly alarming, when one is young and nervous, than to be roused thus by a voice in which the terror is evident and the cause unknown. "'What's the matter? I asked. "'Don't you hear? gasped Fatima, in a whisper.
At this parting scene the thoughts of Fatima's husband were equally occupied with trading speculations, in which he was assisted by the amiable Fatima herself. Translated also into English, they would have read as follows: "The Sultan would give threescore of his best blacks for those three tripe-coloured brats." "I know it, Fatty dear; he's told me so himself."
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